Another year has nearly run its round;
Has fretted through its infancy, played out
With song and laughter in the ringing woods
A merry
childhood through a sunny prime
Worked earnest-hearted; and the labour o'er,
In calm enjoyment listlessly reposed,
Lulled by the music echoing from the Past.
But all must age-the snowdrifts from the
vale

Blotting the features out, make one drear waste,

One unexppressioned level; while the hand
Of winter stays the utterance of Life,
And into a mute sameness hushes song.
The lonely watcher, through the long dark
hours

Mournfully brooding o'er years passed away,
Feels in the stillness a strange influence,
The silence to the fancy takes a form,
And a mysterious Presence haunts the spot,
Greedy of sound, and lies in wait without;
More and more closely round the dark'ning
hearth

Drawing its folds: the beating of the pulse
Grows rythmical, and every thought becomes
The burden of a melancholy song.
Nor seldom, in the lonely evening hours,
Dvena felt the spell, but on this night
The silence has been broken by the voice
She loves above all music; once again
The old world story in the Alpine hut
Repeats itself. Long had he loved, yet

feared

To speak; his presence ever was to her As sunshine to a landscape; in her heart Love was but dreaming, as an echo sleeps Till the voice wakens it into response.

And so at length, upon this new year's eve,
His long pent feelings into utterance break.
But not in words can her reply be framed,
The wave of rapture sweeping o'er her soul
Drowns her glad voice, and forces her con-
sent

To sign itself in tears. So looking up
Into his eyes, she lays her hand in his.

Wears to its noon the night. Throughout the vale

In every cottage kneels a trembling group,
Awaiting the dread moment; from each lip
Falters a prayer; o'er shrinking forms the
light

Shakes, and the shadows quiver on the walls,
Restlessly flitting; but amid the waves
Of darkness, sparkling beacon like, the cross
Arises, round it bend the suppliants.

The father leads the prayer-the mother's

sobs

Filling the pauses, while the little ones

Chime in with tiny voices. Every home,
As with a golden chain, is linked to Heaven-
But underneath the shadow-haunted eaves,
Into the cottage peered the stars, and saw
Evena and her lover holding still

Sweet converse; musing over days gone by,
Comparing memories, and back to light
Restoring many a blossom laid aside
To mark a passage in the book of Life.
The hours fly by unmarked, they both forget
How soon the fatal moment must arrive.
But never in Evena's heart the voice
Of prayer is silent; and when happiest,
Her spirit flies most swiftly heavenward,
As soars the joy-thrilled lark into the sky.
Hark to that clang! with harsh vibrating tone
The old year's funeral knell is onwards borne
Into the night. Upon the moon-kiss'd floor
A shadow wavers, undefined; it creeps
Up to the lovers for a space a dread
Darkness is over all, and when again
The moonlight gleams, Evena is alone,
Stretch'd on the ground, like one who sleeps
in death.

But soon kind words arouse her: o'er her bends,

St. Edenbertha of the Ardenstantz,
Her snowy garments girdled by a zone

Of braided flowers, white centred buds of blue.

"Fear not, Evena, be it thine to save Him whom thy heart holds dear ; not thee alone

Thy virtues guard, but all whose fates are linked

And kneeling by his side, prayed silently; While through the stony ranks a shudder thrilled,

As when a light wind skims o'er withered leaves.

But when she rose a flush burnt on her cheek,

Her eyes through tear-drops brightly gleamed. 66 "In vain

Wilt thou attempt to stay me: hence I go, And he goes with me-for my prayers are heard."

So saying, towards the entrance of the hall She turned her steps; still holding by the hand,

Him whom love's instinct made her recognize,

Changed as he was, and by no other eye
Now recognizable.

Nor did the fiend

Oppose their passage, for he knew the charm Of a true-hearted woman's love the power Which it commands to save from sin and ill All whom it hovers round: most apt to heal

All wounds, and by its magic influence Sunning out good which else had slept

unseen.

"Go, he is thine; but lay this to thy heart,
Such as he now is will he ever be ;
He who forgets his God will soon forget
All else."

Such were the last words that she heardHer o'erstrung strength, the effort made, relaxed,

And all grew dark around her.

Did she dream,

Or was it true, indeed? No longer hung
The vaulted roof above; the rocky walls
No longer closed around.

In her own home, Stretched on her couch she lay a moment paused

The beating of her heart; then one great throb

Flashed through her veins like fire. She

started up

And passed into the outer room. The light Of early morning, cold and grey, revealed Him whom she sought.

His face between his hands

Was buried, and he seemed fast locked in sleep.

She touched him, and he woke ; then slowly rose,

And gazed upon her face as if in doubt.

Then it had been a dream, for he was not Changed in his outward fashion. Yet there seemed

A lack of meaning in his glance. She stopped,
In act to spring into his arms. Alas!
It was too true. He had forgotten her.
Oh, this was bitterest of all! the toil,
The danger of last night, had she braved all,
And to no purpose? No; much had she
done,

Much gained, and still she trusted in the
Power

That had sustained her. So she turned again Back to her chamber, and to heaven appealed For further aid.

Meanwhile the eastern sky Fired fast, till through the cottage windows poured

A golden stream, that ran along the floor, And played around a little isle of flowers, St. Edenbertha's gift.

As Ortos sat Chasing his thoughts in circles, and in vain Endeavouring to stay the giddy whirl Within his brain, the blossoms met his eyes. He flung himself upon the oaken floor, And played with them awhile-then on his hand

Resting his head, gazed long and earnestly Upon them.

Slowly from their inner springs Welled forth the tear-drops to his eyes: the flowers

Passed into misty blue-then one by one
Came floating up the memories of the past,
And on the surface of the azure lake
Formed into clusters, till at last there spread
A perfect image of his bygone days
Before him.

Then across his features flashed
A sunny smile, the herald of the soul
Back to its citadel in triumph borne.
As cold, grey cloudbanks at the break of day
Wake into life, and flushed with rosy warmth,
Foretell the coming radiance,

CHAPTER XXII.

PEG TODD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.

PEG TODD began to feel herself a most important personage in her new situation. She was cook, housemaid, waiting-maid, laundress, and nurse. Certainly, this access of dignity was not without its drawbacks, in the shape of hard work and occasional vexations. Mr. and Mrs. Crank had two children-one a young gentleman of five years old, and the other a "baby" of two. Peg, being one of the most diminutive of her sex, looked far from imposing when enacting the rôle of nurse, carrying a baby almost as big as herself in her arms, and vainly attempting to drag along the refractory Master Crank, who, having a spirit of his own, was particularly fond of displaying it against his nurse in the public streets.

"Come along with yer, yer young imp! I never see such a limb in my life," Peg would cry, giving Master Bobby a vigorous tug at the same time.

"Ooh ooh!" Bobby would roar. tell mother. Ooh ooh!"

"I'll

"Aah! aah!" in a shriller key screamed "baby," from sympathy with its dear brother.

"Drat the children!" cried Peg, struggling along, every inch of progress violently disputed by Bobby.

"How dare you ill-treat the child?—dragging its arms off like that!" exclaimed some tender mother, passing by, and fancying the "dear child" must have been hurt by Peg.

"It ain't no business of yours!" roared Peg, furious at this attack from a stranger, and conscious of her own innocence. "You saucy young hussy!" said the tender-mother stranger. "I'll tell your mis

tress, that I will."

"So you may," cried Peg. "Ooh! ooh!" went Bobby, and "Aah! aah!" went baby again; and Peg perhaps wished she could fling them both into the

* Continued from page 351, vol. vii.

gutter, and run away, she was so sick of

it.

When she at length reached home on these occasions, Bobby usually lodged a complaint against her for cruelty, to which Peg responded by a counter charge of insubordination and other transgressions, which resulted in Master Bobby getting a smack on the ear and no sugar in his milk-andwater.

Nor was Peg the most accomplished of cooks. She could never succeed in boiling a potato to the satisfaction of anybody but herself; but then she was very easily satisfied indeed. A steak she generally managed to dry up like a piece of sole-leather, or else to burn it black outside and have it of a

most unpleasant purple inside. She never attempted a pie-crust but once, and then even Peg confessed that it was difficult to get your teeth out of it when once you had got them in.

As a housemaid, Peg might be said to excel. She could scrub floors, and sweep carpets, and clean windows, and rub furniture all day, with great apparent gusto. How she contrived to escape suffocation from the dust of her own raising,-how she ever managed to get off the several layers of inky dirt which she accumulated on her own face after these grand efforts, it is impossible for us even to surmise; but certainly Peg managed it in some mysterious way of her

own.

Mrs. Crank was a good sort of woman, with a mania for tidiness-a most unpleasant sort of mania to come in contact with. Woe be to the man that protests against it! he is sure to be told that he is a slovenly, careless fellow, whose long bachelorhood has led him into frightful habits; or if the lady be of a less polished order of society, she will probably swear that he likes "everything in a muddle." Now, Peg had no more notion of tidiness than a young bear. She had no objection to scrubbing things and cleaning them; but, as to putting them into the exact places where they ought to be, it was altogether out of her line; and so she had

many a lecture and a lesson, and it was a long time before she profited by them.

Mr. Crank himself, bootmaker and parish clerk, was a quiet, easy-going man, who literally and figuratively "stuck to his last," except when parish affairs called him from it. He took very little notice of Peg, except when his spouse was lecturing the girl in his presence, when he usually struck in with his favourite sentence, "Oh, she'll do!" In fact, Mr. Crank's philosophy was summed up in those words-he thought everything and everybody "would do" somehow. Whether his dinner was badly cooked, his shirt badly washed, his new coat wouldn't fit, his wife was out of temper, or his children out of health, Mr. Crank settled it that they would all do in time. A very happy philosophy this, and one deserving of some cultivation. How many things fret and vex us, that would pass unnoticed if we adopted Mr. Crank's views. How often we waste time, and money, and labour of body and brain, to attain something which we don't really need, or which we could do perfectly well without, if we would only make up our minds that what we already had "would do, somehow." But, why talk of philosophy? Who hopes to teach it? who expects to make the world one whit wiser than it is? who expects, by precept or practice, to restrain one act of folly? who supposes that any reasoning or teaching will make men cultivate true happiness, instead of seeking for honour and glory, wealth, vanity, and vexation of spirit?

Ay,

""Tis a mad world, my masters!" and so it will continue till its end, despite of all that Wisdom may strive to teach it to the contrary.

The town in which the Cranks lived was a large one, but not large enough to be free from the gossip of a country town. Everybody knew everybody, and, what was worse, everybody's business. Even so humble and insignificant a personage as Peg could not escape remarks, Who was she? where did she come from? how did the Cranks get her? Such were a few of the questions which the neighbours of Mr. and Mrs. Crank were fond of asking.

They would have been very clever indeed to have got much out of Peg in the way of information; for her long habit of silence, coupled with her present desire of concealment, quite closed her lips. She felt inwardly convinced that if ever Weazel fell

in with her, he would pounce upon her, and carry her off as remorselessly as a hawk does a tomtit or a field-motise. She even avoided all the little men whose faces she could not see, and whose build resembled that of her former master. When she had been a month or two in her situation, she had one day a great fright.

She was walking, or rather struggling, along with Master Bobby and baby, when she was accosted by a man in an uniform which she at first took to be that of a policeman, but saw afterwards that it was much smarter. The man who spoke to her was, in fact, a railway guard. He was a very tall man, and Peg remembered him at once as Mr. Peck-the elder brother of our friend Job-whom she had seen several times at Weazel's house.

"Holloa! little one. Why, you're Mr. Weazel's little servant, ain't you?" asked Mr. Peck, in a cheery, good-natured voice.

"No, I ain't," said Peg, doggedly, but feeling dreadfully frightened.

"Well, you used to be then, eh?” continued Peck.

"No, I usedn't-I never heerd of such a person," " said Peg.

"Oh, oh!" cried Peck, "I'm afraid you tell stories, my little wench; but you needn't be afraid of me--I wouldn't hurt you, Lord love you! And if you've run away from him, I won't tell, I promise you."

"Won't you really?" asked Peg, with a look of cunning anxiety, but forgetting that her very question was letting out her secret.

"No, I won't, upon my honour," said Peck. "Here, little man, let's see if we can't get a cake," he continued, addressing Master Bobby, whose friendship was marketable on such terms, and who at once conceived a high regard for Mr. Peck.

So Peg suffered Mr. Peck to accompany her, and even volunteered her story of her escape from Weazel's house, and the accident that brought her to the town where they then were. In return for this confidence, Mr. Peck, as simple-hearted as any child himself, told her of his own promotion on the railway from porter to guard, which accounted for his being in that place, and habited in that uniform.

"I'm afraid Mr. Weazel pretty nigh starved you, Peg, didn't he?" he asked, kindly. "That he did, drat him!" cried Peg, energetically. "He'll come to a bad end, he will."